I got “25 Miles” for when I need to get HYPED for my morning jog*, “Daddy Could Swear, I Declare” for when I need a thick heavy UGK break, “Someday We’ll Be Together” when I’m pining away for 1972-79 Tom Waits, and “Hang on in There, Baby” when I get bummed that my Fantasy Football team is not reaching its full potential. Basically there’s a Johnny Bristol-produced or -written song for every one of my life’s occasions.

I was going to parlay this post into a plea for Angels tickets – there are 15k of you following me on Instagram; surely ONE of you knows Moreno or Scioscia or Toriiiiiiii Hunter or some random Dominican scout who can provide the hookup-? Sadly, the team rolled over and played dead and now I’m focusing on trying to get Clippers tickets, which I just realized is the true purpose for which God created Instagram.

This cover has been a long time coming, and in doing a little research, I discovered that a 20-year-old Freddie was roommates with Eric Dolphy (!), making those dudes the Hutson-Hathaway, or perhaps the Love-Westbrook, of midcentury, hard bop NYC. The lazy sports journalists of the world will tell you that Westbrook “plays with a chip on his shoulder,” when really a more accurate description would be that he “’plays with a Tasmanian Devil pumping HGH and meth straight into his bloodstream while Stone Cold whispers angry motivational phrases in his ear’ on his shoulder.” I can relate to this, as when I bought 3 Blind Mice (Freddie in “Blue Moon” is gorgeous), a helpful gentleman at the store informed me that I had made a “good choice” and that “the bass player on here is a guy named Jymie Merritt.” First of all, yes, I KNOW it was a good choice, but thanks for your approval, and second, yes, I’m familiar with Mr. Merritt and how he got sick soon after this very fruitful recording period for Blakey’s band so he brought in Reggie Workman, and despite my estrogen and hips, sir, this little lady knows a ton of useless jazz history. I am unsure as to why I care so much about strangers knowing that I’m well aware of the timeline of Blakey’s bass personnel*, but you know how they say Russ plays with a chip on his shoulder? I DIG with a chip on mine.

“Aw girl I know it’s dangerous to look directly at an eclipse but I can’t help but stare at CELESTIAL BODIES, youfeelme” – my future husband. Hopefully he’ll appreciate the fact that his wife and the RZA have the same taste in records. Hopefully.

“I lay law like Derek and the Dominos” – Talib Kweli, blatantly pandering to Baby Boomers

One of the easiest covers I could possibly do. I don’t know what took me so long, but here’s to bad bitch Patti Boyd, all the musical gentlemen of color from all the SEC states who provided the entire framework of Clapton’s style/mojo but weren’t cute or British so they never got rich* (LOLOLOL, music industry), Duane Allman’s beloved guitar frets 1 through 6 (WHEEDLY WHEEDLY WHEEE), Jim Gordon’s Legitimately Insane ass* for that beauuuutiful “Layla” piano coda, and the Jimmy Conway murderous wreckage scene in Goodfellas, of course.

* Not Clapton’s fault, and at least he got Broonzy and Muddy and them a lot of publicity.

** severely mentally ill. Killed his mom. Also killed it on drums, though, so it’s OK.

Dedicated Chicago bear and all-around stand-up guy based on a bunch of jazz cat interviews I’ve read, Von Freeman made a ton of lovely, progressive music, plus he just loved his city to DEATH. Fuckin jazz game Brian Urlacher.

Outside linebackers on this one are Sam Jones and Jimmy COBBS, which must be more than 1 Jimmy Cobb, so I’ll allow it. Rahsaan Roland Kirk for defensive coordinator. And yes, guys, I looked for a sax, but all that came up in my niece’s toybox was a trumpet. Relax, Instrument Police.